The Weight of Obedience: When Priesthood Counsel Caused Harm

In the Mormon church, obedience is taught from an early age. Trusting priesthood leaders, even when it’s hard, is seen as an act of faith. But for me, obedience in Mormonism often meant setting aside my own intuition and handing over decisions that should have been mine.

This part of my story is deeply personal. It explores the moments when obedience stopped feeling like a spiritual strength and started feeling harmful. If you’re new to my story, I shared a broader view of my faith journey in Leaving Isn’t the Whole Story: My Life Before and After Leaving Mormonism.

The Double-Edged Sword of Obedience in Mormonism

From a very young age, I was taught that obedience was one of the most important traits I could develop. I needed to be obedient to my parents, to church doctrine, and ultimately to God. In the Mormon church, obedience is tied to protection. I was promised that if I followed God’s laws and the counsel of priesthood leaders, my life would be happier, safer, and maybe even easier.

Members are taught to put their trust in priesthood leaders. We’re asked to sustain them in church meetings, to go to them in times of need, and to believe their counsel is spiritually guided. I did this for 40 years. Even when I walked away from some of those meetings feeling smaller or more broken than when I arrived, I stayed obedient. Only after I left the church did I truly begin to understand how misguided and at times damaging the counsel I received had been.

The Bishop’s Office: Where Obedience First Wounded Me

I can still vividly recall how my first bishop’s confession went, and it stings even now.

I was 16 years old and had a boyfriend when I decided to take myself into my bishop’s office to confess a sin. In the Mormon church, members are told to meet with their bishop if they break certain rules of obedience. Anything sexual beyond kissing or hugging is considered a serious sin that requires the help of priesthood authority to fully repent. Smaller transgressions can be handled with private prayer, but bigger ones require multiple meetings with a bishop or stake president. There might be weekly assignments, revoked privileges, and drawn-out repentance before you’re considered worthy again.

I had broken rules of morality that were frequently taught in my youth. I was an obedient girl, and I felt a deep sense of guilt and shame, so I did what I believed was right. I sat in my bishop’s office as he asked me extremely personal questions about the encounter with my boyfriend. I hadn’t had sex, but I knew I had crossed a line.

After I answered every question, the bishop told me how wrong my actions were. He belabored the point to such a degree that I walked out of that office with tears in my eyes and my head hung low. I prayed no one would see me because I knew what they’d assume—a crying teenage girl meant something serious had just been confessed. When I got to my car, I sat alone and sobbed, wishing I could disappear.

But I still had to go back the next week.

Even with how low I felt, I never questioned my bishop’s authority. I had been taught not to. I believed I had to rely on him in order to be truly forgiven. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to live with God or my family again after death. That was all part of what I’d been taught about obedience in Mormonism—and I took it seriously.

Pregnant, 19, and Spiritually Cornered

I got married a week before I turned 19 and was pregnant within three months. I thought I was marrying one person but ended up with someone completely different. Once the honeymoon ended, the man I believed I had married seemed to disappear.

My husband at the time struggled with depression, anxiety, obsessive compulsive disorder, and narcissistic personality disorder, and what the church called a masturbation addiction. I knew he had some depression, but I didn’t expect the daily instability that followed. But I was strong, and I believed in the covenant we had just made in the temple. I had promised to be loyal to this man and stay by his side for eternity, and I took that promise seriously.

The longer I stayed, the harder it became.

He screamed at me daily. He would cry and yell in my face, saying horrible things. He blocked me from using the phone to call for help. I had to sneak out of our apartment to use the hotel’s phone nearby and call my parents collect. He never hit me, but he manhandled me and threw me across the bed when he wanted sex. It didn’t matter that I was so sick during my pregnancy that I lost 16 pounds before gaining any weight. He believed it was my duty to satisfy him no matter what, and ultimately he thought marriage would cure his masturbation addiction, which is frowned upon within the LDS church.

We were living in Rexburg, Idaho, a predominantly Mormon college town. When things got loud enough, the neighbors didn’t call the police. They called the bishop. That shows how deeply ingrained it is to turn to priesthood leaders instead of professionals. The bishop would check in, but he wasn’t trained and Aaron always appeared to have a broken heart and a contrite spirit so all was forgiven. He told us to pray together, read scriptures, and be kind to each other. I met with him many times, but I was never encouraged to leave the marriage.

At six months pregnant and about ten months into the marriage, I was seriously considering divorce. I didn’t know how to keep living with that level of instability. I made an appointment with the stake president, hoping he might offer better insight.

After I told him everything, he invited me to kneel with him in prayer. When we finished, he told me he felt the Holy Ghost confirm that I should stay married to Aaron. He said, “You seem like a strong person who came from a stable family. Aaron needs your help because of his earthly trials. If you cannot help him, no one can.”

At the time, that conversation gave me hope. I thought maybe this was God’s way of strengthening me for the journey ahead. So I doubled down. I studied Aaron’s mental health issues. I gathered his medical and school records. I pushed for therapy and medication. I tried everything I could. But nothing helped. I clung to the belief that in the next life, Aaron would be free from his earthly struggles and made whole through the Atonement.

Now, I can look back with clarity. What that stake president told me was wrong. No 19-year-old pregnant girl should be told to carry that kind of burden. But I was obedient. I followed the counsel of my priesthood leader because I believed it was what God expected of me. This is what obedience in Mormonism looked like in my life. I ignored my own instincts in the name of obedience.

Years of Minimization: Bishops and Marital Abuse

I stayed in my abusive marriage for 11 years, meeting with every bishop I had during that time. They all knew about the mental and verbal abuse happening at home, but very little was ever done. I was often brushed off, or they invited Aaron in, and he would cry and say all the right things. It was usually enough to satisfy them.

Because obedience in Mormonism teaches members to seek help from priesthood leaders and to trust in their guidance, I continued turning to my bishops for support. But instead of finding relief, I often left feeling stranded and alone.

Referrals to trained counselors were rare and only came after I pushed for them. Follow-up was nearly nonexistent. Occasionally, I met with a kind bishop who believed me, but he didn’t know how to help. I remained faithful through it all, believing that was what I was supposed to do. Looking back, I can see that obedience kept me stuck. I was convinced that this suffering was part of God’s plan.

Many bishops are good men who genuinely want to help, but they are not professionally trained therapists. The reality is, they are simply not equipped to handle the complex and often serious issues they’re asked to address.

The Sealing Cancellation That Shook It All

There’s something uniquely painful about trying to do what’s “right” and still coming out the other side broken. Years after staying in an emotionally abusive marriage out of obedience, I finally reached a point where I knew I couldn’t do it anymore. When I filed for divorce, I also began the process to cancel my temple sealing. I thought it would bring closure, but instead, it cracked something open inside me.

The way the process was handled, the language used, and how small I was made to feel by the leaders involved—it all shook me. I realized just how deeply my worth had been tied to the priesthood and its approval. That moment was one of the first times I started to truly question not just the people, but the system itself.

I wrote more about that experience in The Sealing Cancellation That Shook It All if you’d like to read the full story.

 

The Visit: When the Church Came Knocking

I left the church a year and a half ago, and I want to be clear that my decision had nothing to do with my last bishop, who still serves in the ward where I live. He’s a genuinely kind man, and I’ve only ever had positive experiences with him. I’d never want him, or anyone else, to believe my faith transition was because of something he did or didn’t do.

But not all priesthood interactions were gentle. Not long after I stopped attending church, and just after my twins left to serve their missions, two men from my ward came to my house. They said they were checking in to see how I was doing. My then-husband, Keith, who still believed and attended church regularly, sat beside me during their visit. But he said very little.

As the conversation began, it felt like the two visitors divided roles between them. One was calm and kind, while the other became increasingly confrontational. Every time I answered a question, I was met with pushback. The man sitting across from me challenged my every word, as if I needed to defend my own heart. I felt like a child being corrected instead of a woman navigating her faith.

What hurt even more was that Keith, the priesthood holder of our home, said nothing. He did not step in. He did not defend me. He did not protect me. I was left to carry the weight of the conversation alone, just as I had carried so many hard things in my adulthood. That silence left an ache I still feel today. It reminded me of all the times I had been left to fend for myself when I needed someone to stand beside me. Instead of comfort, I felt anxiety and shame in my own living room.

Once again, I walked away from a priesthood interaction feeling small and misunderstood. And this time, the silence of someone I loved made it hurt even more.

The Real Weight of Obedience

Obedience in Mormonism taught me to turn outward for answers and to submit my will to men I was told spoke for God. I did this with my whole heart. I followed the rules. I went to my bishops. I stayed in painful situations. I prayed, repented, endured, and trusted. I wanted to be worthy. I wanted to be good.

But now I see how heavy that obedience became. I gave away so much of my power and was often met with silence, spiritual bypassing, or harmful counsel. The leaders I was taught to lean on were not trained for the roles they were expected to fill. And too many times, the priesthood in my life, both in the church and in my home, failed to protect me.

I know I’m not alone in this.

For some, obedience feels like peace and purpose. For me, it eventually felt like grief. Grief for the girl who stayed too long. For the young woman who blamed herself. For the mother who cried in secret. And for the woman who finally left, only to realize how long she had carried the weight of someone else’s expectations.

I share these parts of my story not to tear others down, but to honor the truth I lived. And to say to anyone else quietly questioning—your intuition matters. Your pain is valid. And you are not wrong for finally choosing yourself.

Have you ever trusted someone’s authority over your own voice, only to look back and realize the cost? I would love to hear your experience in the comments.